


A Bird In A Gilded Cage

by Epiphanyx7



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, F/M, First Kiss, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-01
Updated: 2009-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-16 20:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epiphanyx7/pseuds/Epiphanyx7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"She's only a bird in a gilded cage, a beautiful sight to see. You may think she's happy and free from care, she's not, though she seems to be. 'Tis sad when you think of her wasted life, for youth cannot mate with age; and her beauty was sold for an old man's gold, she's a bird in a gilded cage."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bird In A Gilded Cage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shantirosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shantirosa/gifts).



> After about a gazillion drafts, I finally decided that this was the best I could do when it comes to characterisations; I only hope that I've done them justice. Many thanks to [](http://sparrowshellcat.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**sparrowshellcat**](http://sparrowshellcat.dreamwidth.org/) for the excellent beta. Any errors are my own. Title and Lyrics are from the song "[A Bird In a Gilded Cage](http://ingeb.org/songs/shesonly.html)" by Arthur J. Lamb. Written for the [Camelot Solstice](http://community.livejournal.com/camelotsolstice/) fic exchange, 2009.

Her betrayal tastes like copper and diamonds, bitter and bloody in Uther's mouth, against his lips. He feels as if the breath has been driven from his lungs, the air around him suddenly lacking in any sustaining quality. Perhaps he could have borne it, this hurt, if only it had been anyone else - anyone but Morgana. Instead, he stares at the woman in front of him and thinks _"I do not know her at all"_ , which somehow hurts him more than the poisonous, bitter words she throws at him. Morgana's eyes glow as she spits and fights and claws at the guards attempting to drag her away.

He knows it is the law -- his own law, that the guards must chain her and throw her into the dungeons to await her sentence. And yet, Uther had not felt this terrible even when it had been Arthur lying on the dirty, filthy ground. (Arthur had disobeyed his orders, but Arthur was not a traitor. Despite everything, Arthur was Uther's son, and Uther was proud of him.)

"Who would want a king like you?" Morgana spits, and every word is like a spear, aimed directly at Uther's heart. He does not leave her chained (he should) and he does not gag her to stop the flow of words (he knows that he should). This betrayal, this act of treason, _this_ has left him defenceless and cold; Uther stands in the dungeon and watches the lady Morgana scream and rail at her captivity.

If she used her magic, Uther thinks, then she would find it easy to kill him. It is only luck that has kept him alive thus far.

Morgana beats her hands against the bars on her prison and when they come away bloody and torn, Uther finally orders that she be bound.

(He has her wrists wrapped in wool and silk, carefully so that the manacles do not chafe her wrists, but Morgana looks at him with hatred on her face. She does not thank him.)

He knows, in his heart, that he cannot kill her.

He does keep her chained. This is not his choice. He cannot see her hurt.

Uther has never wanted to see Morgana in pain, even now; but the guards know their duty, and she is a prisoner. Even as he knows that his Morgana is a traitor, a liar, a witch -- he also knows that this witch must have cast a spell on him, because he cannot bear to see her harmed. Uther knows his duty to his ward, and he must protect her. Uther knows his duty as a king, and he must see to her death. Uther knows nothing about being only a man, but the man that is Uther is in love with the lady Morgana, and even though that woman does not exist ( _witch,_ his mind says, _traitor_ ) he loves her anyway.

\-  

Uther goes to sleep, convinced that the witch has cast a spell on him. There is no other explanation, he thinks, unable to fall asleep and lying in his bed instead, awake, his mind tumultuous. The bed is warm, the drapes have been drawn, but he lies on his back and stares upwards angrily. He must be under a spell, because he has slept quite well for twenty two years, and this night should be no different from any other.

He is a good king, Uther reminds himself, but for the first time the words ring hollow; not comforting as they ought to be. The words snake and slither through the deeply hidden corners of his mind and return as a lie. _I am a good king,_ he thinks, and he knows that the words are lies before they have even formed fully.

He turns over, pulling the blankets around him, too warm and not nearly relaxing enough to sleep. His thoughts tumble madly around his head, deafening him to the rest of the world. Uther wants to believe that he is a good king and a just ruler, but he has always known that his policies are unfair. The way he treats those who wield magic -- it is not because he knows magic to be evil, but because he knows that magic has already, and will continue to, hurt his son. And perhaps the way he has been ruthless in his dealings with sorcerers, witches, and mages who dare to show their faces in Camelot does not reflect well on him, and it has left him and his kingdom vulnerable, even though he knows he is protecting Arthur. He regrets none of the executions he has presided over, he feels remorse at their death but he would not change a single instance. If his protectiveness means Uther sentences a man or woman to death without a trial, a jury, nothing but his cold-hearted sentence that not even his own son would dare speak out against -- so be it.

Uther remembers the scornful, derisive look on Morgana's face. So angry, for one so young. And yet in his mind, her voice rings clear, powerful, lilting and teasing and almost mesmerising. Her lips are very red, and very soft, and she asks him _"What kind of king kills his own subjects? What kind of tyrant cares more for his own prejudice than for his people?"_

Uther knows the answer, in his heart. A bad king, a harsh king, not the kind and just ruler that the people of Camelot deserved.

He is not a good king.

Uther is not a good king, but even as he lies in his bedchamber and does not sleep, he holds Arthur's face in the forefront of his mind as a consolation. The taste of guilt and self-loathing is sour in his mouth. Perhaps no one will remember him kindly, perhaps none will or think fondly of the days when he had ruled Camelot -- but Uther is a good father, he is a good man, and he knows that he will remorselessly spill far more blood if he has to, to keep Arthur alive.

He has no choice.

He is a father.

-

On his knees in the dirty dungeon, Uther rests his forehead against the smooth silk of her skirts and sobs his frustration. He cannot hurt her, cannot kill her, even though it is his duty -- his _duty_ , Uther reminds himself again and again, as Morgana taunts him and curses him, and finally, finally falls silent.

The dungeon is no place for a lady.

-

Uther surrounds the tower with iron, takes away all of her books and her potions and spells, and creates a room in the tower where she can do no harm. Morgana stares at him with pity, but Uther has her chained in there, too, when he visits. He means to leave her there to rot, but he visits her every day.

Their meetings are almost civil.

"How have you been?" He asks Morgana, and she stares at him with breathtaking blue eyes. Her skin is as creamy and smooth as ever, her voice still dulcet-toned. Not everything about his Morgana was a lie, Uther knows. Not everything, nothing but her trust and her love and her faith, nothing but their friendship, her respect, nothing that had mattered to him.

"Why are you so kind to me?" Morgana asks, and it is not a wail or a sob. She is not anguished.

Uther sees to it that she has everything but her magic. "I have brought you a gift," he says, laying the book down on the table. Morgana did enjoy poetry, not the romantic epics that many girls loved, but true poetry. He had been surprised to learn that had never been a lie, either. "I hope you will read it."

Morgana stops speaking to him, then. Instead she stares at him, with wide eyes, not moving or talking when he comes to visit. She sits and stares at him, contemplatively, as if she is trying to decipher a puzzle, and on the fourth day she will not speak to him, Uther orders her unbound.

"That is not wise, my lord," The guard says, but he is already moving to do Uther's bidding.

She must have cast a spell on him, Uther knows, but she does not act like one who knows her every request will be granted, she does not act like a witch. She is his Morgana, his ward, his daughter, his only friend and companion since he lost his beloved Ygraine. Uther is weak, because he cannot have her killed.

Morgana sits across from him, deep blue eyes looking past his defences into Uther's soul. When she casts her eyes downward, he admires the dark shadow of her eyelashes as they fall against the smooth, pale line of her cheek. She is too pale, too smooth, too perfect -- and yet it is worse to realise that those things are all her own virtues, not at all the perfidious result of a witch's spell or a harlot's tricks.

-

Uther makes the mistake of asking her whether she is happy. Morgana's eyes flash coldly for a moment, and he can feel the temperature drop and an icy chill settle over the room.

"Am I _happy_?" Morgana asks, venom in her voice. She transforms so completely from her soft, ladylike self into the viperous witch Uther knows her to be, but he cannot understand where the distinction lies, Even now, she is still his Morgana. "Am I happy?" She repeats, cruelly, and she laughs like a witch. "No," She says, finally, when Uther has spent long enough staring at the blank wall space over her shoulder and wishing that he had not come to her this day. "No, Uther, I am not happy. I am a prisoner here, or do you forget?"

He has, indeed, forgotten. He does not like for her to be trapped, even though he can tell himself that he is protective. That does not make it true even though Uther knows that he is trying -- he is trying his hardest to make it so.

"I am not happy," Morgana says.

Uther's lips move of their own accord and he says, "What can I do?" And his voice is raw, harsher than he meant it to be.

Morgana's lips move, something that might once have been a smile but is now bitter and angry instead. "My freedom, Uther, that is the one thing I would ask for, and the one thing you will never give me."

His heart falls. There is nothing that he can do.

"If I asked it of you," Morgana says, and her voice is wistful. "Would you kill me?"

His voice is broken when he responds, but Uther does not lie, even though it is his right as a king and a ruler to do so if he wishes. "No," he says. "Anything -- Morgana, you could ask me for anything, and if it is in my power to give to you, I would. But you cannot ask me to kill you, you must not,"

And her expression is surprised, which should not be the case. She looks at him, wide-eyed, the curiosity he saw and nurtured as a child once again apparent on her face. "Why?" Morgana asks.

 _Because you are mine_ , Uther does not say. _Because I love you_ , he does not say. _Because you are not like the others_ , but this too he does not say. "I cannot," he says, instead, and it is also the truth. It has always been so. "I cannot kill you, Morgana, do not ask me -- " and Morgana looks at him, for the first time since he discovered her unnatural powers without any hatred or malice in her eyes.

"What is it that you want?" Morgana asks him, and Uther has no answer to give her. "My life?" She asks. "My loyalty? Do you want my tears, my lord?"

He looks away from her, tries to formulate his response even as Morgana stands up, skirts rustling. Uther has her dressed in silks, in expensive linens, in soft cottons and warm wools. He gives her fur-lined cloaks and pretty silver headdresses, and even though she is a witch and a sorceress and a lady locked in a tower away from prying eyes, she dresses herself well and arranges her hair. She looks and acts like a lady, although her words are often far too harsh. "I do not want anything," He says.

Morgana walks in front of him, stands with her chin tilted high and defiant light glowing in her eyes. "You want nothing?" She asks. "You must want something, my lord."

He hates it when she calls him that. He says as much.

"What would you have me call you instead, sire?" Morgana demands. "What do you want from me? Do you wish for me to see your future and tell you what your enemies plan? Cendred plans to march against Camelot this coming winter, when the knights are unprepared and the harvest has been completed."

Uther starts, jerks backwards when Morgana tries to touch him. "How do you know this?" he asks, unable to help himself.

Morgana shakes her head. "If you don't want me as your personal seer-- Is it my body, my lord?" She drops her cloak from her shoulders, baring her skin. Uther looks away, angry, because she would -- a witch's trick, that, and not one that he would willingly submit himself to. "What do you want?" and she falls to her knees, her fingers grasping his shirt and her nails digging in as she pulls at him. "What do you want? Why am I here?" She begins to cry. Loud, childish sobs, and tears begin to fall, sliding down her cheeks and falling to the ground, a few landing on Uther's leg.

He stares at the small dots, proof of Morgana's humility, proof of her sadness, and Uther cannot bear it any longer. He pushes her away, standing up and trying to remain unmoved by her tears.

He leaves.

-

"Punish me, then," Morgana demands. "I am a traitor, am I not?"

Her cheeks are flushed dark, her eyes shimmer with un-spilt tears. Uther stares at her, but finds that he cannot speak.

"Hit me," Morgana hisses. "Strike me, my lord, my king -- it that is what you so desire. I have been a thorn in your side, I have been a beast and a hellion and -- you --" she throws off her rings, her bracelets, dropping the jewellery unceremoniously onto the ground.

Uther makes no move to stop her. "What is wrong with you?" He asks, uncomprehendingly, because he does not know why she is angry. "Why are you  so--" _wilful,_ his mind supplies. _Angry. Violent. Unmannerly_ , but Morgana is all of these things and none. "What do you want from me?" He asks.

"I want you to hurt me!" Morgana screams. She pulls a ring from her finger and throws it at him; it strikes his collar and bounces harmlessly to the floor, where it is ignored. "I want you to punish me, hate me -- treat me like you would treat anyone else! Why am I _here?_ " and this last is an agonised scream, torn from her throat as if she can bear no more of her torment.

He's treated her well, hasn't he? He's given her anything that a woman could want -- he does not even prevent her friends, her maid, from visiting her, from tending to her. She has baths drawn up for her, sweet-spelling oils to spread in the water and expensive lotions to smooth over her skin. She wants for nothing, Uther has seen to that, and this rage and despair is not something he deserves. "I treat you well," Uther says, and his voice is thunderous and heavy when he speaks. "I give you -- gave you -- _everything---_ "

"I never asked you to! I never wanted you to." Morgana spits. "I want you to -- to treat me like you treat everyone else, like you treated Gwen, like you treat every other witch and sorcerer you find! Treat me like the lowest scum of the earth, like a traitor, like something to be hated and feared. Why am I here? Why are the windows in my room so small that I can see the sky and sun but cannot throw myself to my death? Why do you let me live when countless thousands before me have died at your hands for lesser crimes?"

Uther stares at her, uncomprehending, unwilling to accept this. "Ungrateful child," he snarls. "I have -- you do not understand anything," because Uther could no more kill Morgana than he could cut off his own head and give it to her. He is incapable, he is weak, and this snobbish brat, this wilful hellion of a woman -- a girl that he raised, he loved, he cherished and protected--

Standing up, Morgana's face falls. Her hands settle by her sides, and she looks almost peaceful for a moment. "If you loved me," she says. "If you loved me, Uther, you would have killed me months ago."

Closing his eyes, Uther tries to calm his anger.

And then he feels the stinging slap, the sound echoing around the otherwise empty room. He catches her by the wrist before she's had time to back away, and Morgana's eyes are wide with anger and without fear. Uther tightens his grip until she flinches, shoves her backwards and sends her stumbling into the chair behind her. "You," he says, unable to put words together to explain how stupidly ignorant she has remained. Uther loves her and she betrays him, and nothing he has ever known or done will ever compensate for the yawning, bitter hatred in his heart when he looks at her.

" _You,_ " he says, and Morgana's eyes flash with triumph.

It's all he can do not to strike her, although he wants to. He jerks her forward, instead; Morgana's strength does not compare to his and he overpowers her easily. He drags her by the hair, one hand tight around her wrist, squeezing tight around bruises already half-formed. (Even as a child, she had bruised far too easily). Morgana stumbles and falls, barely able to catch herself with her free hand, bracing herself against the mattress when he throws her down onto the bed.

Uther lets her go because he doesn't want to hurt her,  not really, even though Morgana seems desperate to drive him into an all-consuming rage. Uther is not evil, but every man has a breaking point and Morgana has always been his (except when it was Arthur). Morgana struggles against him, but as soon as Uther lets her go she beats her fists against his chest, his shoulders, catching him across the jaw with an ill-timed blow.

He doesn't want to hurt her, but sometimes it's easier to just let his anger control him. He tries to catch her arms, subdue her, and the fight is not a fair one. Far larger than she is, it is not difficult for Uther to hold her down. He is a man, and she is a woman -- perhaps that alone should have stayed his hand, but Morgana takes every single hesitation as an invitation to strike him; she kicks at his legs, aims fists at his chest and scratches at his eyes. He is almost surprised at how strong she is, but Morgana has been trained by Arthur to protect herself, so her strength is warranted.

"I hate you," She whispers, her voice broken, and Uther pins her down, holding her wrists above her head as gently as he dares, breathing hard as he stares down at her. Even now, flushed with anger and bruises dappling her skin, she is impossibly lovely.

"I hate you," Morgana cries, and her eyes flash golden for a moment.

Uther freezes, unsure what he ought to do in the face of obvious sorcery. He should call the guard, he knows, he should squeeze her throat until she has no breath, he should kill her where she lies for daring  this treasonous activity in his presence.

But he does nothing, even though he knows his body is very much under his control.

Morgana breaks his grip with surprising ease, pushing him away and standing up in one graceful, elegant move. She moves with purpose around the room, and Uther sits on the bed and waits for her to stop pacing her prison.

" _I hate you!_ " Morgana yells, turning to look at him. Her eyes are golden and her hair is wild around her face, and there are tears falling down her cheek. Uther feels guilty, looking at the bruises on her arms and one taking shape just above her collarbone.

Standing, he moves shakily, meaning to make his way to the door. Morgana stops him with a wave of her hand, freezing him in his tracks with magic. He can feel the magic around his limbs, cold and freezing. He cannot move, cannot speak, cannot _breathe--_

And then just as quickly as he was bound, he is free to move again. Morgana slumps down onto the chair, hair obscuring her features as she makes a soft, choked noise. She is crying. "Why can't I kill you?" Morgana whispers, and Uther knows that she meant for him to hear.

"Why can't I--" 

Uther moves to her side, kneeling at her feet because he wants to look up at her. Her eyes are golden behind the veil of tears, and she looks sad - broken.

He grabs her by the shoulders, not at all gently as he drags her from the chair and into his arms. Fingers pressing into her flesh through the thin fabric of her dress, forming new bruises on top of older ones, Uther hates himself for the way his heart cannot stand to see her cry.

He holds her tighter, wipes her tears away from her cheeks. His chest aches when every tear is replaced by another, and Uther is helpless to do anything but hold her closer, let her rest her head on his shoulder and sob out her hatred at the world.

-

Time passes.

-

When Morgana lifts her head, Uther is once again enthralled by the strength he sees in the young woman's eyes. Her eyelashes are wet with her tears, but her eyes are blue once more and he is mesmerised by the soft, perfect bow of her lips when she moves to speak.

And when she speaks, it is only to say his name. " _Uther,_ " she says, and he cannot help but remember that Morgana was once his confidant, his adviser, his friend -- someone he has trusted, someone he has depended on.

Uther is struck speechless, and so he kisses her before he can stop himself, brushing his lips over hers. It's a chaste kiss, however inappropriate, and then Morgana kisses him back.

Her mouth opens under his, and Uther discovers that Morgana tastes like cinnamon and her skin smells like lavender. She kisses him back, biting his lips hard enough to draw blood. Uther can taste the coppery, salty flavour of blood on his lips, but Morgana does not try to stop the kiss. She opens her mouth and laps at his lips, drinking drops of his blood as if it was the sweetest nectar, and Uther kisses her as he's kissed no woman before.

It should not be this satisfying, kneeling on the floor with Morgana in his arms and his lips against hers, hungry and wanting but somehow it is everything Uther has ever needed, everything he has ever wanted. In the back of his mind, something is telling him that the witch has cast a spell on him, but there are long, slow moments when Uther explores her mouth, tongue seeking hers, and he does not care if this is magic. He can taste that, too, like a dark and foreign spice, subtle behind the faint taste of blood in her mouth. His eyes are closed, but Uther can feel her flaring gold beneath her demurely-lowered lashes, and her magic tastes like something unknowable but the kiss is sweet, clinging to him like honey.

He tries to break away, but she will not let him.

Morgana wraps her arms around his neck to hold him in place, chasing his tongue with her own, kissing him as fiercely and passionately as he kissed her. She pulls on his hair, tugs him closer, takes control of his mind and draws him down to her. She does not say 'please', she does not say anything, but her lips are the sweetest thing Uther has ever tasted, and she is the noblest, most beautiful woman Uther has ever known.

He presses kisses along the slender column of her throat, hands slipping from her shoulders and securing their grip around her waist. Morgana shifts even closer, a warm weight settling across his thighs, her fingers tangled in his hair. Uther's crown tumbles from his head to the ground as his lips desperately seek hers, his fingers clench and slip against the soft, smooth silk encasing her sides. Uther twines his fingers in Morgana's hair where it falls around them in a jumbled mess of wild, exuberant curls, holding on for dear life as they kiss.

His other arm he wraps tightly around the slim curve of her waist, pulling her as close as he can.

Their lips break apart for a brief moment. Uther does not want to look, but he cannot stop himself. Morgana does not give up her grip on his hair, their faces too close as she stares at him, wide-eyed, her lips bruised and swollen from his kisses. Her tears have tried up, but there is something new in her expression. They are too close, there is nothing between them but her breath ghosting softly over his lips, Uther's harsh panting and the sound of his heart pounding in his chest.

 _God help me,_ Uther thinks, and he kisses her again because he can do nothing else.

-


End file.
